


etiquette

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:31:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7411304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that he’s gotten himself going he doesn’t know how to stop. There’s a reason he’s been trying to avoid Georgie as much as possible. Robbie’s got so much ammunition stored he’s probably a hazard to himself at this point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	etiquette

After the end of second period and a quick ‘keep on keeping on and we’ll wreck them’ speech from Coach, Quincy immediately grabs Georgie and takes him aside. He doesn’t take him far, but he’s too quiet for Robbie to catch, low and stern, probably reiterating the same shit he said to everyone after that travesty of a fight — to stay the fuck off Benson if he doesn’t want to get thrown out of the game, ref’s orders. Probably throwing some shit like ‘you moron’ into it as well. Georgie nods a few times, face serious, and Robbie doesn’t even know if he’s glad or not that Quincy’s tearing the hide off of him. It’s not like Robbie’s in Benson’s corner or anything, and if anyone had a punch coming it was him. Robbie wishes he could feel more satisfied about it, either Benson getting nailed or Georgie getting scolded, but instead he’s just conflicted.

Georgie gets a few back slaps and congrats from the guys after Quincy lets go of him, immediately undermining Quincy’s message. Quincy knows a losing battle when he sees it, always has, and just rolls his eyes at Robbie. Robbie shrugs fatalistically back at him, because what can a captain do. It’s sure as shit not a role Robbie envies. Kind of strikes him as the same as goalies: you don’t have to be crazy to do it, but it helps, and no guarantee you won’t _go_ crazy as time goes on.

Crane, mumbling something to himself in the corner, just underlines Robbie’s point there. 

They keep on keeping on, they wreck them, yadda yadda: the signs were carved in deep by the end of the second, and there wasn’t much chance the Isles were going to patch shit up in time. Still, a win’s a win, and no matter how often you win it doesn’t stop feeling good. They’re not all giddy with it like they have been when they’re playing worse, when they snap a losing streak or defeat a rival or take it by the skin of their teeth, but everyone’s loose and relaxed with it. They’d all been in each other’s pockets too much on that drag in New York, all missed home, so no one’s suggesting going out, but they’re not all rushing out to get the fuck away from each other either. It’s easy, the atmosphere, a bunch of guys who like each other, like winning, like winning together.

Obviously that mood’s caught Robbie, because he starts out ignoring Georgie, but by the time he’s showered and getting into street clothes he’s feeling relaxed and curious enough to ask about Benson.

“The fuck was that, dude?” Robbie asks, sure Georgie will know what he means.

Georgie looks over at him. He doesn’t say a single word, but still somehow perfectly conveys ‘you’re calling me dude? watch out, you might be nice to me next’. He has a very eloquent face, and Robbie spent too much time learning Georgie to have forgotten how to read him. But point taken, Georgie’s face: dudes who fucked you over don’t get to be called dude.

“The fuck was that, Georgie?” Robbie asks. He’d hovered on ‘George’ for a minute for extra unfriendly, but that just seems more …affectionate than anything, honestly, a continuation of a years long inside joke. And Georgie hasn’t been Dineen since the day Robbie met him, so it’ll just sound weird if he says it, like he’s talking to a stranger. 

Georgie shrugs. “He was being a dick,” he says.

“So you punch down?” Robbie says. “Way to pick on someone your own size.”

Georgie flinches, and Robbie feels kind of like he righted the balance. See, Georgie? The ‘dude’ was a blip on the radar, we’re not fucking cool.

“Thought that was your whole thing,” Robbie says, because that was just a warm up, and now that he’s gotten himself going he doesn’t know how to stop. There’s a reason he’s been trying to avoid Georgie as much as possible. Robbie’s got so much ammunition stored he’s probably a hazard to himself at this point. “Be the bigger man, help the little guy. Or is that just some more bullshit you spewed trying to get laid?”

“It isn’t bullshit,” Georgie says, then, all hurt sounding, “I’ve never lied to you, Robbie.”

“Wow,” Robbie says, genuinely speechless for a second. “Wow. That is possibly the most disgusting manipulation of the truth I have ever fucking heard.”

“But not a lie,” Georgie says. “You know it isn’t.”

“You know what, you smug Irish Catholic bastard, you know exactly what the sin of omission is, so fuck off with your saintly ‘never lied to you’ bullshit,” Robbie says. “I’m done.”

The room was mostly empty when Robbie asked, but not completely, and Robbie was…not quiet at the end of that, so basically everyone left is staring. Which is fucking wonderful. So great.

Robbie finishes dressing with his eyes forward, not looking at Georgie, who is also not looking at him, presumably. Not saying anything, at least, which is a fucking gift. He gets out fast, before Quincy can get it into his head to take him aside, bumps into Whelan and Matthews in the hall.

“I’m sorry for being an Irish Catholic bastard?” Wheels says, half joking, half sounding kind of wary, and Elliott’s giving Robbie a look Robbie’s decided it’s best to completely ignore. “We didn’t go to church or anything, though, am I off your shit list?”

“Honestly, I don’t even know what the fucking difference is from my Roman shit,” Robbie says. “I’m a Catholic bastard right with you, sorry dude.”

“Robbie,” Elliott says, that ‘I know you’ voice that is the last fucking thing in the world Robbie wants to hear right now. 

“Nope. Not interested, see you losers later,” Robbie says, and bails before Matty says anything that confirms that he knows exactly what the fuck’s up. This one was on Robbie. Keep your shit out of the locker room if you don’t want to talk about it, you fucking moron.

“God fucking dammit,” Robbie spits out loud when he finally gets into his car, and ignores the voice that sounds a shit ton like his nonna’s murmuring about throwing the first stone.

*

It’s not that Robbie spends a huge amount of time thinking about his conversation with Cassidy. He’s got shit to study, assignments to do, baller hockey to play. It’s just that he starts seeing both Cassidy and Francis _everywhere_. He’s probably run into them before without knowing or whatever, but man, it’s hard not to think about it when the world suddenly shrinks to the size of a pin.

First he sees Cassidy and Francis in class, of course, but they’re close to the front and Robbie’s half asleep and very afraid the day he sits up front is the day he gets caught napping in class, so he dozes in the back while trying to take the best notes possible, thankful he’s actually got some note insurance now. 

Then there’s another study session, so obviously he sees them. Francis doesn’t act any different from the first one, but Cassidy links her arm in Robbie’s when they’re walking back to the dorms, saying cheerfully, “You’ve totally got a shot,” and completely refusing to elaborate no matter how much Robbie asks.

Finally they play an away game at UMass Lowell, win by the skin of their teeth, and get back to Boston early enough that there’s plenty of time to celebrate if you know where to go. A friend of Georgie’s from intro to soc or whatever invited him to a frat party, and Robbie doesn’t feel like paying through the nose for drinks at a bar or a club, so he tags along, blinking when within like…thirty seconds he runs into Cassidy and Francis, because apparently the universe is telling him something.

Robbie’s not surprised to see Cassidy, considering he met her at a house party and they clearly run in the same circles, but he _is_ surprised to see Francis with her, because this doesn’t really seem like his kind of scene. Francis looks like he’s just as surprised to be there, clutching a drink white-knuckled and looking around like he’s afraid he’s going to get thrown out or some shit.

“I’m going to say hi to Cassidy,” Robbie says.

“I’ll grab us drinks,” Georgie says. “You want something sweet?”

“Yes, Georgie, get me a girlie drink,” Robbie says flatly.

“Yeah, you want something sweet,” Georgie says, clapping him on the shoulder and disappearing before Robbie can argue the point.

“Robbie!” Cassidy says, greeting him with a hug that lingers, like, forever.

“Hi?” Robbie says. 

“Plastered,” Francis mouths behind her, and Robbie stifles a laugh.

Cassidy finally pulls back and then pats him on the cheek like a fond aunt or something. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Robbie says. 

“Oh!” she says, like she’s had a sudden insight. “You know what? You guys have a lot in common, you should talk about that.”

Robbie goes red, and is kind of…not comforted, but — okay, kind of comforted, by the fact that Francis does too. That was not subtle. That was miles from subtle, Robbie doesn’t know if she’s subtle sober, but she sure as fuck isn’t when she’s drunk.

“I’m going to let you guys get acquainted better,” Cassidy says, just…completely underlining the point right there, and stumbles off.

“Wait,” Robbie says, because there’s no fucking way he’s letting her walk off alone this drunk in a frathouse, and Francis is reaching a hand out at the same time Robbie says it.

“Laura!” Cassidy shouts, immediately grabbing a girl in a hug as tight as she grabbed Robbie into, and the girl laughs and hugs her back, so Robbie thinks she’s in okay hands.

“Um,” Robbie says. “So that was. Awkward.”

“Yep,” Francis says, and they both laugh, that awkward uncomfortable laugh. Robbie hates that laugh, but it’s better to share it, he guesses.

“So,” Robbie says. “I’m going to—”

“You want to go somewhere quieter?” Francis asks, and if that isn’t a come on, it…really sounds like one. 

“Sure, lead the way,” Robbie says. He follows Francis to a bedroom some moron’s left unlocked and remains miraculously empty, no one around to see them duck into it, and can’t help thinking about what he’d gotten caught on during that first study session: whether he’d be the kind of guy who stayed put together, quiet, or the kind of guy who broke loose of all that the second his clothes were off.

Francis locks the door behind them.

Robbie’s pretty fucking sure he’s about to find out the answer to that.

Positive on the coming silently thing, Robbie finds out fifteen minutes later, but that’s because they’re both trying to be quiet and he muffles himself with his teeth in Robbie’s clothed shoulder, a dull pain that ends up tipping Robbie over the edge himself. His hair’s pretty messed up too, after Robbie got his hands in it, so. Robbie kind of likes the look of him messed up.

Francis makes a face at the mess on his hand, this kind of faintly offended ‘how dare you, semen, begone’, which Robbie finds hilarious until he realizes they’ve got some shit options here, like — walk out with a hand full of jizz? Not a good plan. But Robbie’s not some asshole who’d just wipe it somewhere for the poor idiot who didn’t secure their room to discover later. That’s a dick move. So much pun intended.

Thankfully they’ve got a couple clean-ish napkins in the trash — it’s not like Robbie’s really picky about the cleanliness of the shit getting the jizz off his hand, thought Francis looks kind of grossed out when Robbie hands him the crumpled napkin. “Beggars cannot be choosers, dude,” Robbie says, and Francis sighs but takes it.

“Note to self,” Robbie says once they’re all cleaned up and mostly don’t look like they’ve been hooking up. “Blowjobs are way less messy.”

Francis snorts. “That’s debatable,” he says.

“Revised note to self,” Robbie says. “Way less messy if you swallow.”

“That an offer?” Francis asks.

“That was a note to myself,” Robbie says. “It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know.”

Francis is grinning now. He’s got these perfect teeth that Robbie would bet huge money are a result of braces and like…not ever having pucks fly at his face. Not that Robbie’s ever without the cage, now, especially since the…practice incident, which involved way too much blood and a painful farewell to two teeth that he’d hoped to spend the rest of his life with. It was not meant to be, sadly, and now they’ve been replaced by massively inferior impostor teeth during possibly the worst day of Robbie’s life. Dentists, man. Dentists.

“It could also be an offer,” Robbie adds. “You know. If you’re interested.”

“I could be,” Francis says.

“Good,” Robbie says.

“Good,” Francis replies, then, “We should…probably not hang around in a stranger’s room.”

“Point,” Robbie says. “Uh. After you.”

“Thank you,” Francis says. “I…really need to wash my hands,” he says, once they’re back in the hall, overlapping with Robbie’s, “I should probably find the friend I came with,” and then they both laugh awkwardly. Post-hook up etiquette, man. Hard stuff, especially when you’re going to see them again and…probably go for a rematch.

“Right,” Francis says. “Uh. Cassidy has my number?” 

“Cassidy has my number too,” Robbie says.

“Good,” Francis says. “I’ll. Text you.”

“Okay,” Robbie says. “Text away.”

 _Text away_ , Robbie mouths disgustedly at himself when Francis heads toward the bathroom. Good thing you had his dick in your hand before you pulled out those sweet lines, Robbie. He has no fucking clue how Georgie does it all the time. Being fucking hot has something to do with it, Robbie’s sure, but Robbie’s heard him. Dude has game. Robbie has _text away_. Stupid.

He finds Georgie not far from where he left him. He’s not picking up a chick for once, talking to some vaguely familiar guy Robbie thinks is Braden’s roommate? Bro? Definitely generally in Braden’s orbit. Georgie breaks away from the guy (Will? Bill? Something like that) and walks over to Robbie when he notices him. 

“Where were you?” Georgie asks. “I was looking all over.”

Robbie tries not to feel good about that, fails miserably. “Hooking up,” he says, trying for casual. Failing miserably. Story of his life.

Georgie blinks a couple times, which Robbie thinks he should offense to. It’s not that fucking weird. Robbie’s allowed to hook up. He hasn’t since he started at BU, but it’s not like he was some virginal — okay he’s maybe a virgin by like…penetration definition, and Georgie’s probably not by any stretch of the word, but Robbie’s allowed to exchange handies without Georgie looking surprised.

“Grats,” Georgie says. “High five?”

“Not a fucking chance,” Robbie says, then, because he’s still offended, “You don’t know where my hands have been.” Bonus altruistic reason: no jizz hand high five for Georgie. Robbie’s a giver. A selfless, selfless giver.

Georgie rolls his eyes and doesn’t even bother to look grossed out. 

Georgie ruins everything. 

“Tell me about it,” Georgie says.

“Don’t kiss and tell, dude,” Robbie says. Neither does Georgie. Or like. Maybe he does, if someone asks. Robbie doesn’t know. He sure as shit doesn’t ask. 

“You suck,” Georgie says, and Robbie feels like it’s his duty to waggle his eyebrows at that. 

Georgie laughs, pulls him in to a one armed hug slash chokehold that Robbie struggles futilely against because Georgie’s got super strength. “You want to head out?” Georgie asks.

“I’m good for now,” Robbie says, relaxing against Georgie’s chest when Georgie doesn’t seem inclined to release him, forearm warm pressure against his throat, not hard, just. There. Present. If Robbie really tried to pull away, Georgie would let go in an instant, Robbie knows that. Robbie’s like fifteen minutes removed from the first orgasm since summer not provided by his right hand, and he’s still focused too much on the warm band of Georgie’s arm tucked around him, grasp tight enough that Robbie can feel his chest moving against Robbie’s back. Robbie really, really needs to pull away. 

He doesn’t. 

Of fucking course he doesn’t.


End file.
